


Cold Sweat

by alphaplease



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hurt Stiles, Panic Attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:25:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1281010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphaplease/pseuds/alphaplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is crumbling apart, and he can’t stop it. He can’t stop the feeling of panic slowly overtaking him. It’s like watching a train-wreck in slow motion. He feels too hot but too cold, and he cant breathe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Sweat

**Author's Note:**

> Short one-shot of Stiles having a panic attack. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine.

His fathers voice echoed in Stiles' head, in a seemingly never-ending cycle. 

“It’s your fault! It’s your fault and you know it! She would have never been out there if it weren’t for you! She never would’ve died. It’s your fault! Your-.”

Stiles slams the front door to the house, eyes watering, and rushes over to his jeep, yanking the door open. It’s raining, hammering down outside, and it sounds like thunder on the roof of his car. The noise is like lightning. Every sound is loud, roaring in his ears, magnified to the point where it physically hurts to hear. 

And he knows his father didn’t mean it, that it wasn’t Stiles’ fault, he didn’t kill her, but the damage is done. 

Stiles is crumbling apart, and he can’t stop it. He can’t stop the feeling of panic slowly overtaking him. It’s like watching a train-wreck in slow motion. He feels too hot but too cold, and he cant breathe. It’s familiar in a terrifying way, his breathing shallow and fast, impersonating the tempo of his heart. He feels lightheaded, and he knows what’s happening, knows it’s the start of a panic attack, but he can’t pull it back, he can’t get it under control

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. His mouth is dry, and yet it feels like it’s filling with water, like he’s choking on it. His face feels too hot, his skin burning. His mouth’s open, sucking in short breathes and the air tastes wrong, tastes poisonous, but he needs it, his lungs screaming for it. His chest feels tight, constricted, like it’s weighed down too much to get a proper lungful of air.

He feels trapped, enclosed, and he’s pulling at his clothes, trying to ease the feeling of claustrophobia but everything feels tight. Its too tight and too constricting and he can’t breathe. He curls his arms up next to his ears, trying desperately to block out the roaring of the storm outside, the ongoing screaming he can hear in the distance.

He rocks forward and put his head between his legs. His head’s swimming, and he fights back the dizziness and nausea. He feels fuzzy, his lungs burning, mouth opening and closing, gasping for air that just wouldn’t come. His hands clutch at the armrest, the rest of him shaking, unable to be anchored, even by his white-knuckled grip.

His heart is battering around in its cage like it wants to jump out his throat, and he’s sweating and he cant see. Why can’t he see? He knows he just needs to calm down, but he can’t help from scrabbling at the dashboard, fingers grasping at the rough material. 

Stiles suddenly kicks his feet out, trying to break out from the invisible bonds holding him so he can run, get out of the enclosing space, but he can’t find any traction on the floor of the car. He leans back in his seat again, letting out a shuddering breath. In, out. In, out. 

He slumps forward as a wave of nausea washes over him, bile burning the back of his throat. He clasps onto his legs, holding onto them like a lifeline. He draws in a shattered breath, wiping away the tears, and tries to blink away the black spots appearing in the corners of his vision. 

A low agonized whine escapes from between his gritted teeth, the flesh beneath his grip starting to bruise. He tries to focus, but its not working, and oh god it feels like dying.  
He can’t get it together to call for help, for anyone to help, please, someone help, he cant breathe. He’s lost in the crush of his own panic. He feels the sweat dripping down his back, making his t-shirt stick to his skin. 

And then suddenly he doesn’t have to worry. His dad is there, and he’s soaking wet from the rain outside, his hair hanging over his eyes. He’s rubbing a soothing hand in round even circles on Stiles’ shoulder, telling him to “stop, calm down, just breath.” And it’s not easy, but the suffocating feeling slowly slips away, and suddenly the screaming stops.

Stiles looks up from under the hood of his jumper. His dad’s still there, whispering words of encouragement, whispering how much he loves Stiles, that he’s so sorry, he never meant it, he doesn’t know what came over him

And then it’s silent. The rain has stopped and he can breathe. He can breathe.


End file.
